The first in a sort-of series based on "Some Nights", using some of my favorite pairings. Don't quote me on that, I don't know if I'll be able to keep it up.
As per usual, none of this is mine yet. And I am my own editor.
'So, without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you,' the story!
Some nights I stay up cashing in my bad luck; some nights I call it a draw. Some nights I wish that my lips could build a castle - some nights I wish they'd just fall off.
Stiles really hated his life sometimes. Well, not hated - maybe, strongly disliked. After all, he did still have his father. And sometimes Scott. And- well, he'd say he had Derek, and Scott, and all these people, but they really had him, not the other way around.
The young man collapsed onto his bed, sighing heavily at the thought of Derek at all. Like Lydia, that was a hopeless dream that fed on delusion as sustenance to keep itself alive. Every touch that was too rough, every grasp that was too much, every word that was too harsh - they were all filed away into the massive library that was Stiles' mind. In a pathetic physical attempt at escaping his thoughts, and the implications of said thoughts, Stiles turned onto his side.
And promptly got the shit scared out of him by a pair of spectacular fire-red eyes watching him from the shadows in the corner.
"Jesus Christ, Derek, don't do that!" Stiles exclaimed. The eyes moved closer until Derek was visible. "You're damn lucky my dad's not home tonight."
"We need your help, Stiles." Derek forgoed greetings, as per usual. Stiles sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "We need you to-"
"Do some shit research so I'll stay out of your way." Stiles rubbed at his face and ignored Derek's raised eyebrow. "Yeah, I know what you need, Derek."
Before Stiles could blink, Derek was in his face, hands tight like manacles around Stiles' wrists and eyes blowing like smoldering flame.
"Don't presume to know anything, Stilinski." Derek growled. His grip tightened, and he leaned more heavily onto the teenager. Stiles swallowed and tipped his head back, maintaining both eye contact and a good distance.
"Right, I'm so damn stupid. And can you turn off the headlights? If you're going to do the whole eyes-like-blood thing, at least go for something a little more normal. Like Vulcan blood. At least it wouldn't as weird for me to get turned on by green eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if you were a Vulcan, actually. You've got the whole logic-and-no-emotions personality down to a damn T-" Stiles' nervous ramblings were cut off by Derek's hands tightening again. He made a completely dignified and entirely voluntary squeaking noise.
"What did you say?" Derek's voice was all low tones and hidden anger and so close - God, his breath is here, his mouth is right there -
"Uhh." Stiles turned his face away. "I, uhh, I say a lot of-"
"Look at me." Now Derek's vocie had it's Alpha, big-boy, don't-you-defy-me pants on. His entire body was vibrating slightly; the tension in the room seemed so thick to Stiles that he's sure that not even Scott could claw his way through it. God, it's hot in here. And humid. And heavy, When did my room become the Burmese jungle-
His train of thought was halted when Derek released a wrist, only to use the free hand to grab Stiles' chin. He jerked the human's face back over so their eys met. Stiles blinked rapidly before shutting his eyes completely and swallowing again.
"I heard you, Stiles." Derek was everywhere, like sets of surround-sound speakers behind Stiles' closed eyelids. "You do not understand what it is to be an Alpha mate. It is dangerous-"
"Every second I'm near you, or Scott, or Allison, or this entire damn town, I'm in danger!" Stiles exploded, eyes flying open. Derek controlled his own expression.
"As a mate, you are a target. Another pack could hurt you. I could hurt you." Derek moved his head to meet Stiles' eyes again. "I don't have control, or compassion, or knowledge. Stiles-"
"Save it." Stiles tugged against Derek's hands until he was released. "I really just need to learn when to shut up."
"Stiles-"
"Go, Derek." Stiles' voice had lost it's characteristic charm and humorous delivery. Derek, for once, listened, and climbed back out the window.
Stiles fell backwards on his bed, rubbing the finger-shaped bruises burnt into his wrists. He shut his eyes and tried desperately to forget the night's events.